I kissed my wife’s cold forehead inside the coffin… and when I opened her closed hand, I found a navy blue button ripped off. I recognized it instantly: it was from my brother Rodrigo’s jacket.

I walked to the coffin as if the room had gone silent around me. Camila lay inside, pale and beautiful, her hair arranged neatly on a white pillow. She looked almost asleep.

But something was wrong.

Camila hated the way people folded the dead like saints.

“When I die,” she once told me, “don’t make me look like a statue. I was a woman, not a decoration.”

And yet, one of her hands had been placed across her chest. Anatomy